Rhys leaned forward. “You hired me, yes. And in order to do my job, Mr. James, you bloody well need to do yours.”
“And so I shall,” Alastair returned, and tightened his jaw, “on Monday morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he gave Rhys a curt nod “—I’m leaving for the day. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Before Rhys could form a reply, Alastair turned on his heel and left.
Rhys became aware of a disturbance just outside his office. He glanced up with a scowl to see Gemma blocking the door. No one got past her. “Just a moment, Miss Dashwood,” she protested, “you can’t just barge in—”
There was a minor tussle at the door. Natalie shoved past and stormed into his office, Gemma on her heels, both of them quivering with righteous indignation.
“I’m sorry, Rhys,” Gemma apologised. “I tried to stop her—”
He thrust his chair back and stood up. “It’s all right. Close the door on your way out, please.”
“Of course.” Gemma shot Natalie a scalding glare and left, shutting the door smartly behind her.
Natalie advanced on him. “How…dare…you.” She threw her handbag on his desk. Spreadsheets and marketing reports flew up and fluttered down to the carpet.
“How dare I?” Rhys demanded. “You dare to take an attitude with me, after running up bills the size of the national debt and using company credit to do it?”
“You closed my personal credit lines,” she fired back. “All of them. You can’t do that!”
“I can. I did.” Rhys leaned forward and planted his hands flat on the desk. His face was inches from hers. “It’s my job to cut costs and turn this sinking ship around. And the first step is to stop unnecessary spending. Yours, in particular. It stops here, and it stops now.”
“I’ve always had a line of company credit, and so have mum and Caro! You can’t take it away just to save a few pounds.”
“We’re talking more than a few pounds. And Lady Dashwood’s line of credit remains open, as does your sister’s. They manage their finances with restraint. You, however, do not.”
“Grandfather will hear about this!” Natalie snatched up her handbag from between Rhys’s outspread hands. “You’ll find yourself out of a job before the day is over, Mr. Gordon.”
“Go ahead.” He eyed her with contempt. “Run to Sir Richard, because you know he has a soft spot for you, and you take full advantage of it.”
She gasped, outraged. “That’s not true—”
“But this time, it won’t work. Because your grandfather not only agreed to cut off your credit—” Rhys bent down to retrieve a wayward spreadsheet from the carpet and threw it back on his desk “—it was his idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he came around the desk, took her firmly by the arm, and propelled her towards the door “—I’ve work to do. Why don’t you run along and christen a ship?”
Natalie jerked her arm free and turned to face him. “Don’t you dare to patronise me! This isn’t over!”
“No, it isn’t.” His jaw tightened. “You’re on a budget, effective immediately. You can’t buy a box of Weetabix without my approval.”
“What? You can’t put me on a budget!” Natalie sputtered. “You’re not my bloody husband!”
“And thank God for that,” he said acidly.
“I won’t be treated like an empty-headed adolescent—”
“Then stop acting like one,” Rhys retorted, and returned to his desk.
“What about you?” she snapped. “Staying at the Connaught at the company’s expense, swanning all over town in your Jaguar, making a bloody fortune to come in here and boss me round, turning everything upside down—”
“I worked my arse off to get here.” His face was dark with anger. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen, going to school at night and working during the day, and it wasn’t easy. But it taught me responsibility, and it taught me the value of a pound. Two things you’ve yet to learn.” He scowled. “I make no apologies for who I am or how successful I’ve become, Miss Dashwood, because it’s all down to one thing. Hard fucking work.”
He snatched up a sheet of paper from the blotter and thrust it at her.
She flinched. “What’s this?”
“That,” he informed her, “is what’s known as an invoice. It lists money owed for something which one has purchased.”
“You needn’t talk down to me! I can see it’s an invoice—”
“Good. Excellent! We’ve made progress.” He strode, scowling, from his desk to the window. “Now look at the figure owed. Here’s a hint – it’s on the bottom of the page.”
Natalie looked more closely at the invoice. “Well…there’s one Missoni tank dress, one Cavalli sheath, and one Waterford chandelier, shipped to Scotland…” her voice dwindled and trailed away. “Oh. Eleven thousand pounds…that’s rather a lot, isn’t it?”
“Rather a lot, yes.”
She bit her lip. Guilt was plain upon her face. “I bought it for Tark and Wren. It’s a wedding gift.”
Rhys turned away from the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and faced her. “Did it never occur to you to send them a nice set of wine glasses instead?”
“Wine glasses would still be pricey,” she informed him. “The castle dining hall seats two hundred.”
“Then why,” Rhys went on, gathering steam like an angry locomotive, “if you were determined to be extravagant, didn’t you purchase the chandelier from Dashwood and James? We carry Waterford, you know. You’d get a ten percent discount. And free bloody shipping!”
“That would’ve been immensely tacky,” she said indignantly. “The chandelier would’ve arrived at the castle in a big D&J packing box, and Tark would’ve known straightaway that I used my family discount to buy his present.”
“Thank God your reputation for generosity with the rich and titled remains unblemished,” Rhys snapped. “Do you realise that this store – the source of what little income remains to you and your family – is on the verge of total fucking collapse?”
Natalie fixed him with a glare. “I don’t believe things are so bad. You make everything look worse than it is, so you can swoop in and save the day. All hail Saint Rhys.”
“Let me make this as simple as I can, Miss Dashwood.” He returned to his desk and leaned towards her, his hands pressed down on the spreadsheet-covered blotter. “The store’s become a vast money pit, with more outgoing than incoming. That’s not good. It can’t continue any longer.”
“You’re mistaken,” Natalie said stubbornly. “D&J still make a profit. I stand to inherit a fortune—”
“A fortune?” he echoed, incredulous. “The stores haven’t made a profit in months. Sir Richard has an outstanding debt of nearly a million pounds. Once that debt is paid off, if it’s ever paid off—” Rhys sat down, punched a few keys on his laptop, and pointed to a spreadsheet with a much tinier figure than Natalie could ever have imagined “—you might inherit enough to open a chip shop in Bermondsey.”
Natalie was too shocked to speak.
“Unless things change drastically, and soon,” Rhys informed her icily, “Dashwood and James will close its doors…forever.”
As the opening strains of Pachelbel’s